


The Unintended Consequence of the Fall

by arthureameslove



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, After events of BOTFA, Amnesia, Bilbo Baggins is a BAMF, M/M, Plotty, angst and then fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-08-18 10:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8159333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthureameslove/pseuds/arthureameslove
Summary: He dies on Ravenhill.Technically, this is true.He becomes a criminal: a thief and a liar.This is also true.These things are not mutually exclusive.He, as he was, is no more.This is untrue. He has merely forgotten.





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty, so the decision to start two fics simultaneously is obviously a fantastic one on my part. Due to the fact that school has been particularly hellish at the moment, I haven't been able to get out much by way of my other fic, A Royal Arrangement. However, I had a few chapters of this fic already written out for future use, so I want to get SOMETHING out at least. So here you go, ;). And I'll mention that I did not tag this as major character death for a reason, so don't worry.

_“Once you had put the pieces back together, even though you may look intact, you were never quite the same as you'd been before the fall.”_  

–Jodi Picoult

* * *

 

The thing about battles, Bilbo realized, was that you could never see the whole of them. Time was nonexistent in this place. It was a rather disorienting thing for Bilbo, because while time was not something he could actively control, he always managed to stay on top of it. He, at his core, was very punctual. In the Shire, breakfast, elevensies, and afternoon tea all occurred at a specific time every day, on the dot. This was one of many things Bilbo let go of during his journey, as uber-specific mealtimes were understandably overshadowed by the constant worry of encroaching danger the company had the misfortune to attract.

Despite this, he thought himself all the better for it. He was indisputably a world away from where he started, because the Bilbo from months ago would not so much charge into a war as read about a long-forgotten one in a good book next to the fire. But there was something about such brutal combat, such chaos, that left him feeling as helpless as that ridiculous creature he used to be, fluttering about, worrying over missing handkerchiefs. It was the feel of a battle, he thought again, that was so off-putting.

Bilbo could only be aware of one adversary at a time, because really, if he allowed himself to understand the reality of what he was doing—that he was slashing through the throng of bodies in a mad attempt to reach Thorin bloody Oakenshield before he waltzed to his death like the oblivious buffoon he was—he quite honestly might've turned tail and run. Granted he was wearing the Ring and he knew that he wouldn't be seen, but any stray arrow or faulty swing might actually hit him, and he couldn't help but think, a bit hysterically, it was rather ironic that misplaced blows would indeed find a mark.

Everywhere around him there was movement—frantic, blurred figures which he couldn't clearly make out, all shades of dismal, disorienting grey. He blocked a blow here and there and slashed at the legs of orcs, but it was all distracted and halfhearted. The only thing on Bilbo's mind was his destination: Ravenhill.

He could see it, just past the horizon line, before the mountains of the dead. He forced down a shiver as he dodged the swing of an axe, ramming Sting into an orc’s stomach as he passed, unseen. Already the smell of blood was thick in his nose and the back of his throat, making him nauseous, making him wonder what would be gained even if they won. There was so much death here.

He moved quickly, pushed forward by single-minded determination. He need to get to them.

He could see Dwalin now. The fearsome dwarf's axe was nearly a blur, his movements impossibly fluid and lethal. Bilbo scrambled across ground which grew steadily colder under his feet, sticky with blood. He didn't want to call out and distract him—he new distraction at a time like this might very well be fatal—but before he could make up his mind something hit him from his left, knocking him off his feet and stealing the breath from his lungs.

It was a goblin, snarling, it's movements jerky and spastic. Bilbo felt his heart freeze as jagged teeth came terrifyingly close to his face, before he realized that the goblin's eyes were empty, unseeing. With wide eyes, Bilbo saw the quivering arrow which had lodged itself into its neck. Blowing out a wisp of air through his teeth, he pushed at its surprisingly heavy body until he was on his feet once more. Even invisible it was nearly impossible to get around—for if space was not taken by a body in motion then it was taken by an axe or sword, and a wrong move would quite literally be the death of him.

At the base of the great hill skirmishes were thinning and Bilbo sprinted freely, cursing his pounding heart because he needed to move faster, _faster_ , because he might very well be too late, and if he was too late—

"Thorin!" he called when they were in sight, sliding a bit on the ice but not caring because thank Yavanna, they were all there and they were alright. He yanked off the ring in the same moment, sighing in relief as color and substance returned to the world.

Thorin whirled around with an expression of confusion which turned to disbelief when their eyes locked. _"Bilbo,"_ Thorin seemed to say, but if he did it was so silent that Bilbo only saw it on his lips.

But he couldn't worry about that now, couldn't dwell on the multiple expressions that flitted across Thorin's face—what looked like regret and hope and fondness because, "we have to _leave,_ " he shouted, eyes darting to each of them, Dwalin, Thorin, Fili, and Kili, in turn. "There's another army. They're headed for us as we speak."

Thorin took a step forward, stopped, then a look of determination settled on his face. "We return to the mountain. We regroup."

Fili spoke up, "Uncle, Azog—"

"We live to fight another day," Thorin interjected, eyes still on Bilbo.

For lack of anything, Bilbo nodded at him, and couldn't help but smile when Dwalin roared, "Quit standing around then! Let's move!"

Kili was the first to action, running to Bilbo and wrapping his arms around him. "I'm glad you're back," he whispered forcefully, punctuated by the tightening of his arms, and then he was gone, moving the way Bilbo came.

Fili was close to follow, clapping Bilbo on the back with a smile, and then Dwalin, who inclined his head at him. He was a bit surprised—he'd figured Dwalin would want nothing to do with him. Crime against the crown and all that. But if anyone could be sure that Thorin hadn't been in his right mind then, it would've been his closest friend.

The king stopped in front of Bilbo and put a hand on his shoulder almost reluctantly, his expression wary, as if he wasn't quite sure what he was seeing was real. He opened his mouth to speak, but Bilbo shook his head, hoping his eyes conveyed what he could not say. _I know you were sick—I forgive you—I want to stay with you—I always have._ "We have to get out of here _now_ ," he said, emphasizing his words by taking hold of Thorin's wrist and pulling.

"You're right," Thorin murmured, and he squeezed Bilbo's hand, some great, unnamed emotion flickering behind his eyes.

They ran.

They ran, but Ravenhill was so much bigger, so much more than Bilbo remembered, when he had been blinded by purpose and a frantic hope. He heard a great ominous horn blow behind them—too _soon_ , they weren't far enough yet—and with it came battle cries and the sound of what seemed like a thousand pieces of metal clanging and ringing. They weaved under and over cold stone with Thorin in the lead, but the shouting never seemed to grow further away—it sounded closer.

His lungs burned but he pushed on, never allowing his pace to waver. There was a brief moment he thought they'd make it. Then pain exploded up his arm and he cried out, hitting the ground hard, the force of whatever had hit him sending him skidding across frozen rock.

His vision went black for the moment, but it was enough that he thought himself dead.

After what seemed like a lifetime, sight returned in great blurs of color and movement. Sounds filtered through the throbbing in his ears, Thorin yelling what seemed like his name, the clanging of metal against metal, the ragged bursts of his own breathing, but it was faint as if heard from a great distance. With great difficulty he managed to push himself up by the arm which was unscathed, shaking with the effort. Agony heightened with every movement, the pulsing ache stemming from the base of his neck, down to his fingers.

As his vision cleared further he saw the bloodied tip of what might have once been a spear poking through his shoulder, broken in such a drastic way that it was barely visible through the bloodied skin. Bilbo heard something like sob escape him, and the panic in his lungs made the frigid air unbearable.

Weakly wrapping his fingers over the wound, gagging at the warm, wetness he found there, he attempted to stand, but the pain was too much. Turning his head to his left, he saw he had narrowly avoided a cliff; looking down at the sheer size of the drop made him even more disoriented. He then saw, through a haze of tears, the figures of the dwarves, who were fighting mercilessly against a group of orcs.

He saw Thorin crossing blades with two foes at once, each of his movements carefully timed and precise, where the enemies' were driven by ruthless violence. Fili, Kili, and Dwalin were similarly locked in combat. Every other blow, Thorin would chance a quick glance backward at him, eyes filled with more fear than Bilbo had ever seen. They were protecting him, he realized.

But they were outnumbered. They were tiring—each swing a slight less powerful than the last.

Still, against all odds, they fought and held their own. For one blissful moment he forgot the pain he was in. They would win. They would win and the dwarves— _his_ dwarves—would live and Thorin would be king and have a home again and that was enough for him. "Bilbo!" he thought he heard, but the wind in his ears was roaring now and the world was spinning and he couldn't be sure of anything.

Bilbo's eyes drooped closed for what felt like a moment, but when he opened them Thorin was stumbling toward him, favoring his right leg, his face betraying a bone deep panic.

But they were winning, Bilbo thought blearily. _Everything will be fine._ He could feel Thorin's hands on his face, feel Thorin shift his body so he was lying almost completely in his lap, but even this was muted, as if it were happening to someone else. "The mithril?" Thorin asked, hands going to the wound, making Bilbo hiss as blinding agony shot through his arm.

"Gave it to Tilda. Bard's youngest," Bilbo groaned. "Didn't think I'd need it."

He couldn't help but smile wryly, wincing as Thorin unconsciously put more pressure on his shoulder. He coughed and black spots appeared in his sights, and he felt his eyes slip shut once more.

He just wanted the pain to stop.

"No," he heard Thorin murmur under his breath, "no, no, no. Bilbo, Bilbo, look at me, Bilbo."

Bilbo blinked blearily, feeling nauseous at the way the earth seemed to drop off at his left, a cliff so steep he was uncertain of its height; he could reach out a hand and the ground would just slip away, crawling from his fingertips inch by inch. Just the thought of it made him dizzy and his vision blurred, and when clarity returned seconds later he could see nothing but Thorin's face above him, blue eyes wide and frantic, and the soft, white specks of snow trailing lazily from the cloudy sky.

His head felt heavy, almost unbearable so, but he shifted slightly anyway. "Thorin," Bilbo murmured, because he was quite certain, now, that he wouldn't get another chance at it, "I'm sorry—"

"No," Thorin interrupted, voice shaky, "no, you have nothing to apologize for."

"...But I—" Bilbo tried to swallow against the dryness of his throat but found he couldn't; he coughed so violently tears rolled down his cheeks, and his eyes widened when he saw blood—his blood—splattered onto Thorin's weathered armor. He heard Thorin's choked back sob, heard rather than saw the dwarf's composure crumble, and realization hit him.

He was going to die.

Suddenly, he was filled to the brim with reasons he wanted to live—things he never got around to saying, things he'd never done.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Fili, Kili, and Dwalin, watching from behind, their faces grim—he was somehow saddened to see them looking so devastated. They had won their mountain back. Bilbo had wished he might've been there to see them make it a home again. When he looked at Fili and Kili, their faces' fell, and he wanted, suddenly very badly, to see them smile, laugh, and act as two mischievous young boys as they used to, energetic and full of life. He hoped, however, that they understood this when he looked at them, because though he wanted to tell them he only had the energy to whisper, now.

Thorin though, the magnificent ponce, was here and Bilbo'd be damned if he didn't tell him everything. "You're a magnificent ponce, you know that?" he distantly heard himself murmur, and, oh gods, it seemed his verbal filter was fading right along with his lifeblood.

Thorin choked out a surprised, short laugh, his eyes watery. "Yes, I do," he smiled thinly. "You—you did what only a true friend would do, and I could not see it."

He seemed to swallow, before choking out, "you can not possibly forgive me."

Bilbo did not even hesitate. "I forgave you ages ago, silly dwarf," he rasped, smiling crookedly.

Thorin's expression practically crumpled, and he shook his head. "I have led you into such peril," he mumbled thickly.

Bilbo searched Thorin's eyes, wondering if the dwarf he adored so could really be so thick headed. He laughed, actually laughed, his chest aching with every rise and fall but he couldn't help it.

They'd both been so stupid.

"You still don't get it do you?" Bilbo whispered, a small smile still pulling at his lips. "I am glad to have shared in your perils. Every last one. I faced _dragon fire_ for you, Thorin. And I would do it all again and more because I—"

He stopped, his eye catching some jerky movement in the distance, disrupting the calm of the hilltop. Squinting, he tried to make it out. "Bilbo?" he heard Thorin ask, his voice tense, but Bilbo didn't answer.

It was—it looked like a figure emerging from the mist, obscured by the snowfall. At first, he thought it might have been Gandalf, if the size was any indication. But the gait, the movement was all wrong. He—he knew this shadow, this stranger. Flashes of fire crossed his mind and Bilbo frowned, the memory just out of reach.

Then, the figure appeared and Bilbo's heart leapt to his throat.

Azog.

 _"Thorin,"_ he scraped out, his voice barely even audible but still betraying his panic.

Thorin pulled him closer to him then, mistaking Bilbo's anxiousness for some fear of death. He brought his forehead to Bilbo's and whispered his name in between murmured, broken apologies, but Bilbo could only breathe rapidly, dread pooling at the pit of his stomach because the last thing he had seen was Azog raising a crossbow with a frightening grin, and Thorin couldn't see, he wasn't looking none of them were _looking_ —

Bilbo breathed out slowly against Thorin's lips. There was only one way this would end. "I'm sorry, Thorin."

With the last of his strength he pushed Thorin to the side so that he would be in Azog's sights instead. It only lasted a moment.

He heard the whistle of an arrow flying through the air, saw Thorin's eyes widen, saw the snarl on Azog's face when he realized he had missed his target, in an instant. He didn't have time to feel the pain, not really, because the force of the blow sent him slipping backwards and suddenly there was nowhere to fall but open air.

The last thing he heard was Thorin, screaming his name.

Then, he didn't hear anything.

* * *

_Your work is not yet done, child of the West.  
_

_We have only just begun._

 


	2. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the moment of choice. Where he ends, and begins again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. Hold on to your butts.

Everything was bright, a beautiful golden warmth, and there was no pain.

The sky was devoid of clouds, the sun casting a comfortable, gentle light over the afternoon.

Bilbo found himself sitting on cool, green grass, the smell of newly trimmed hedges and baking bread assaulting him from all sides. Smells of the Shire.

And yet, it wasn't quite the Shire.

There was a distinct emptiness to it, a lack of people taking up space, and it made him pause. The only sound came from a stream to his left, the water clear and sparkling.

When he looked into the distance, the light seemed to bend and shift, too bright to focus on for too long. Mountains encased the valley, snowcapped peaks gleaming in the distance.

 _What a lovely place,_ Bilbo thought absentmindedly.

And yet, somehow _lacking._

He stopped. Frowned.

He glanced at his surroundings again.

Something wasn’t right. _This_ wasn’t right. He needed to be somewhere, it was _important._ He couldn’t be here—

Bilbo blanched. He didn’t even know where here _was._ How had he...?

Before he could bring himself to a panic, a voice sounded behind him, melodious and calm. "This place is known by many names. Men call it _The Halls of Mandos_."

Bilbo whirled around, scrambling to his feet, but as soon as he caught sight of the woman who had spoken he lost the breath in his lungs. She was surrounded by an unearthly glow, blonde, curled hair twining down her shoulders to rest above her waist, doe brown eyes clear and honest. A wreath of flowers weaved its way around her head.

"Who...?" Bilbo managed, gaping.

She smiled softly, and said, "I am also known by many names. But I suspect you would know one above all else."

Bilbo stared at her. "You—you're..."

"Little One, you may call me Yavanna."

The ground seemed to drop away from under him, and he almost lost his balance. “I—I’m sorry, what? That—that’s not—how?” Bilbo sputtered, but his questions slowed to a stop when he caught the look of sadness on her face.

Oh.

Bilbo blinked, took a shaky breath, and swallowed numbly as he remembered. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

Yavanna studied him with sorrow in her eyes. "I am sorry," she told him gently, and Bilbo distantly thought it almost comical that a goddess found a need to apologize to _him._ “It was not meant to be this way.”

Bilbo’s mouth worked, trying to find words, but he realized there were none. He would never see the Shire again. Never see his neighbors again, Hamfast or Belle or even Lobelia. The thought brought stinging tears to his eyes and he quickly scrubbed his face with his sleeve. “I don’t—how can it just be _over?”_ he asked helplessly.

Yavanna looked at him with sympathy in her eyes, but said nothing. Everything he had known, every _one_ he’d known, now out of his reach, and he didn’t think words could placate the sudden wave of despair. “I’ll never... I’ll never be able to...” Bilbo glanced up with wide eyes. _Thorin._

“The... the dwarves...” Bilbo murmured. “Did they—did everyone survive, are they alright?” _Please, please, please, let them be alright._

“They survive,” the goddess answered, and Bilbo sighed a breath of relief. Her answer, however, struck him as a bit peculiar.

“Is the battle still ongoing?” Bilbo asked, wringing his hands. He felt so full of agitated energy but he couldn’t put it to any use.

“It is, and also is not. Time is not the same in this place as it was in Arda. All things are occurring, and yet have already occurred. Time is true, cyclical and never ending.”

“So that means you know?” Bilbo pressed, eyes wide. “You know the outcome, you know what happens and what will happen?”

There was that look of sorrow again. “I do,” she said, but Bilbo wasn’t placated by her comforting tone.

“What is it?” he asked, feeling his heart sink.

“That arrow was not meant for you,” she finally said. "And you were not meant to die on that mountain." Glancing at the sky, she added, “Your death has changed the fate of Middle Earth.”

“My death? Me?” Bilbo asked incredibly. Then, the weight of the statement sunk in. “What... what does that mean?”

“Erebor and its king will fall first,” she said solemnly, and Bilbo felt hopelessness and disbelief settle in the pit of his stomach. “Then, the Greenwood, and all the settlements of men. A darkness unseen before, unleashed.”

“How?” Bilbo murmured, staring up at her, unable to hold back the despair that overtook his voice. “How does this happen, how can it be stopped?”

The Lady studied him for a moment, then pointed to the stream. “The water serves as a window, from this existence to theirs. It will show you what you seek to know.”

Bilbo started forward, a need to know pressing at his skin, but Yavanna’s voice brought him to a halt. “You will see nothing you wish to see,” she warned.

Bilbo breathed in deeply, and nodded at her, indicating that he understood, and knelt at the river bank.

He stared into the water, waiting for something, anything, but it remained clear, the rocks at the bottom somehow mocking. “What am I supposed to—” he began, but he was cut off by a sudden rush of sight and blurred color around him, the sound of the wind and the stream muffled and distant,as if he had been pulled under the water. Images bombarded him from all sides and he was unable to focus on just one, shutting his eyes against the onslaught until suddenly—

_This, Thorin thought, was what death felt like. This mind-numbing emptiness. A despair that was almost all-consuming gnawed at his insides, and he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the ice under his hands or the softly falling snow obscuring Bilbo's blood, bit by bit. He was gone. Gone, gone, gone. The word rang in his mind and his ears until he couldn't hear the sounds of steel behind him or the sounds of his companions calling his name. He could feel himself shaking, barely supporting himself against the shivers that wracked his body._

_He had heard stories of dwarves who had lost their Ones. He had heard it was painful—altering in its impact—but he had never considered, never imagined this. It felt like something had been physically torn from his body and it was a kind of agony he couldn't control or alleviate, so powerful he could not breathe. Something like a sob escaped him, unbidden, and he wanted to close his eyes and get away, but he could not stop staring at the spot Bilbo had been, seconds earlier. "No," Thorin heard himself say, and it didn't sound right, it sounded ragged and broken and precisely the way he felt inside. "No, no. No, please, please, bring him back to me. Mahal,_ please _—"_

_He could say no more around the thickness of his throat. The realization that he would never see Bilbo's smile again hit him harder than any blow, and if he hadn't been lying as he was, his legs surely would have given out. He felt weaker than he had ever felt, more so than when he watched his grandfather descend into madness or when Smaug had come and ripped everything away from him._

_He felt weaker than he had when he nearly lost everything to the gold sickness himself, because then there had been one Bilbo Baggins to pull him from the edge and believe in him and now—_

_He was gone._

"Thorin,"  _he thought he heard, gentle, like the wind, and he could have howled at the unfairness of it all._

* * *

In another time, another reality, Bilbo couldn’t help but whisper his name, unaware that it would echo across Arda.

* * *

_He might've remained there forever if he had not heard it, a sound that filled him with a cold, blinding rage._

_Laughter._

_It was the cruel edge to it that jolted him from his sorrow, and he knew, he knew who it belonged to because it echoed often in his persistent nightmares. It had been the same, exactly, when he had seen his grandfather's head hanging from his hair and he had not been able to look away, some icy fear gripping him tightly and settling in the pit of his stomach. It was his fault. That wretched filth was the reason Bilbo was gone, the reason Thorin could not—_

_The Orc had stolen Bilbo from him, ripped him from his hands—he had taken him—_

_Mine, he had been_ mine _—_

"Thorin,"  _the voice came again, and some part of Thorin's mind that was not consumed by fury noted a kind of agitation in it, but he dismissed it before he had even processed what that might mean._

_He staggered to his feet, swiping at his sword that fallen at his side. His injured leg nearly buckled under him, but he didn't even feel the pain, blinded by a white hot fury._

_Fíli, Kíli, and Dwalin had already been pressed to return to combat, but Azog, instead of approaching them, had waited, and watched Thorin with eyes that glinted with laughter._

_The crossbow he'd used was held by his one good hand. Thorin glanced at it, and viciously decided he would aim to chop that one off as well, before he killed him._

“Lab liavavle mau iuk vadokan,” _the Defiler chuckled through bared teeth._

* * *

Bilbo heard the words as the Defiler meant them _—_ “Your little warrior is _dead”—_ and did nothing to stop the hatred for the orc from crawling into his heart.

* * *

_Thorin raised his sword, shaking with rage, the metal tip shivering in the air. “You die now,” he spat._

_The Defiler merely laughed._

_In response, Thorin threw a dagger, caring less that it found its mark and more for the distraction he hoped it would be. Azog took the time to dodge and that was all Thorin needed, surging forward as soon as the steel left his hand and swinging his sword with all the force he could._

_His blow was blocked by the metal spike that now served as Azog’s right hand, but for a brief moment Thorin had seen something like surprise on the orc’s face, and he slashed again with an almost manic satisfaction. But Azog had far more brute strength, and with a blow from his mace, he sent Thorin’s sword spinning from his hand, catching on his wrist and sending blood splattering onto the snow._

_The pain was something Thorin didn't, couldn't, register. With his other hand he reached for the last knife at his belt, stabbing upward and catching the orc in the side of the neck._

_There. He saw it, the surprise overtake Azog's features and he relished in it, twisting the knife before yanking it out. There was one, brief moment of disbelief at his seeming success, before an agony he couldn't ignore spread through his chest._

_Thorin glanced down at the sword buried between his ribs, barely registering the dying cackle of his enemy in front of him._

_As the darkness came for him, he wondered if he might see Bilbo again._

* * *

Bilbo choked out a sob. Thorin didn't hear it.

* * *

_Thorin woke to the blue fabric of a healing tent, his body one pulsing ache, but the fact that he could feel again told him that Bilbo was far from his reach once more. “You’re awake, lad,” Balin’s voice came, relieved, tired._

_Thorin’s eyes slowly found his, studying them and seeing a deep weariness. “How long?” he rasped._

_“Three weeks,” his mentor answered._

_Thorin was silent for a long moment. He didn’t want to ask, but he knew he must, must face this and move on if he was to lead a new beginning, a new age. “Have you found him?”_

_Balin’s wet sniffle was an answer in itself. “The snowfall was too heavy. Hundreds of bodies un... unidentifiable... at the foot of the mountain. He’s not been found.”_

_Thorin closed his eyes._

* * *

_Fire. So much fire._

_Blood caked the walls of Erebor’s halls, charred, and blackened, and dwarves roaming through the treasure hoard at its center, drawing swords if they came too close to one another. Slashing and stabbing at each other like animals._

_Nothing but mindless greed in their eyes._

_Fili and Kili, sightless, empty, hands clasped together._

_Bofur, clutching at the war hammer driven through his stomach, expression slack and mouth hanging open in shock._

_Thorin, fingers twitching, expression twisted as his body was consumed by flame, eating away the features of his face, a whisper on his lips—_

Thorin met Bilbo’s eyes _—_

_“Bilbo.”_

* * *

Bilbo collapsed backwards onto the dirt of the bank, chest heaving with great gasps, tears coating his face. A hand pressed against his shoulder and he felt no shame in burying his face in the folds of Yavanna’s dress, willing his breathing to even out. “I am sorry, Little One,” she murmured, stroking his hair soothingly.

“I have to go back,” he managed, looking up at her. It wasn’t a decision. It was a necessity. “Please, you said if I hadn’t died this wouldn’t have happened, so I can _fix_ it. _Please._ ”

“It is not so simple, Little One. I do not have such power without cost. In order for you to gain something, you must give something in return.”

“Give up what? Please, I’ll pay anything,” Bilbo begged.

“Something of equal stature. Of equal importance,” she told him. She paused, then spoke, her voice almost tired. “Your memory.”

Bilbo stared, disbelieving. “But if I can’t remember, how can I possibly do anything to help?”

Yavanna reached out and touched his cheek. “Do you trust me, Little One?”

“Yes,” Bilbo answered without hesitation.

“I can help you and allow some memories to slip through the cracks and fissures of this place, when you’re ready. But I cannot do so immediately. As you are now, you are not prepared to combat this possible fate.”

“But I _can_ do it?” Bilbo asked, desperate. “If I go back, I can change it? How much time do I have?”

“It will be changed,” she reassured. “But how I do not know. As for that coming darkness, there are years to pass in their world yet.”

That sliver of hope was all Bilbo needed. “Please, send me back, my lady.”

“It will be a long and taxing journey, and you will face great hardships. You will not be the same," she said softly, regretfully. "Are you still certain you wish to pay the price?” she asked, voice tinted with a sadness carried on the low breeze.

Bilbo thought of Thorin one last time. Thought of the laughter he shared with Bofur, Bombur, Fíli, and Kíli.

Thought of his dwarves.

“Yes.”

* * *

He woke to the scent of death.

He could not recall ever having been exposed to the newly dead or dying. It was an instinctual knowledge, an on-set recognition of the putrid stench of rot. As his senses slowly returned to him, he grew afraid of opening his eyes. What would his surroundings look like, he wondered, if he could _feel_ death like insects crawling at his skin?

He could hear nothing but the low whistling of what he knew was called _wind,_ something he recognized almost as naturally as his own breath. He knew what wind was, and somehow knew the oppressive weight of the dead around him, and he knew his name was—

Was—

What was it?

Panic closed in around his throat, and suddenly breathing was near impossible. Desperation made him open his eyes—made him frantic to know _anything_ for certain.

The sky was a dull, ashen gray. A small part of him balked at this, remembering a cool blue, but the image was fuzzy, as if he watched from behind a screen. He breathed out shakily, the only sound in the oppressive silence.

He registered that he was lying on his back, that the ground was uneven, cold, and wet. It felt as though half of his body was numb—he could not feel anything below his chest, and tendrils of ice seemed to wrap themselves around his lungs when he tried to breathe deeply. His gaze flickered downward, and he was overwhelmed by _white_ , bright and blinding.

 _Snow,_ his mind supplied.

He turned his head—it was surprisingly difficult, _too_ difficult, and some instinct prickled at his nerves, something was not _right._ He was met with the color pink, and his brain took a moment to process this. He didn't quite understand why his body immediately reacted with dry heaves, shaking, and the impulsive need to vomit. Then, his vision sharpened, rather without warning, and he understood. _Oh._

_Snow is meant to be white._

Bodies. He could see nothing but broken bodies, most half-buried and twisted as he now imagined he was. _Blood,_ he thought, and continued to repeat in his mind, over and over to the point that he had begun to speak aloud, murmuring under his breath. _Blood is red, it means despair, it means death, it means pain._

He saw no one he recognized, but he gathered that didn't mean much, given that he couldn't even recall his own name.

He was surrounded by the newly dead and was slightly ashamed that he felt no great sadness, only a wish to escape and a disgust for the subtle, yet cloying smell. The carcasses were all different in appearance, some short and compact, others tall and thin, sprawled somehow gracefully even in death, all nearly buried. Elves, dwarves, and men. The names were fitting. He did feel a sharp pang of sorrow at those he recognized as dwarves, though he did not know _why_ , so he dismissed it. It was as if his body was familiar with things that his mind was not.

He needed to get away.

He needed to leave, because this place was so imbued with a sense of _wrongness_ , a sensation so strong it brought bile to his dry throat, stinging and sharp. He reached a hand out, then another, clawing, trying to get up, get away. He made very little progress at first, the sheer panic making his movements uncoordinated and ineffective. Gradually, he began to unearth his lower half, and his legs were freezing, and he knew, knew, he should have been dead. His mind told him that snow and cold meant death—it certainly had with those around him.

He didn't know how to measure time, here. It felt like days spent sluggishly dragging himself from that hole, but it couldn't have been, because the sun was not yet slinking past the horizon, and he still had time, still had time.

Time for what, he did not know.

He cried when he was finally free, face pressed against the unforgiving ice, because he didn't know what to do now, didn't know where or why or how or who but still these desperate questions pestered him, making him cry harder.

He stopped when the sun finally disappeared.

Even he realized that crying wouldn't do him any good.

He began to walk. Every step, he nearly fell, always almost reduced to tears, but he clenched his jaw and refused to give in. One foot in front of the other. Away, his mind screamed at him. You are not safe here.

He didn't know why that mattered, but he listened all the same. He walked away from the bodies that brought horrible feelings to his stomach, made it hard to breathe when he looked on them. _Dwarves,_  he remembered, stopped, and glanced back. When he did, he heaved again, dropping to his knees and shaking.

He felt so little acquainted with death, but at the same time like he had seen too much, so much that he was almost numb to it.

He left it behind, ignoring the ache in his chest as he drew further away.

* * *

Bilbo.

The name came to him unexpectedly, unbidden, and the rush of it nearly brought him to his knees again. A name. He had a name, an identity—he was a _person_.

It was something, at the very least. Something to hold on to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, the story will become very Bilbo-centric, with likely only a few flashes to what Thorin's got going on. Until... Later. *wink wink*
> 
> Also, in this story I will be messing around with Middle Earth mythology a LOT. If you couldn't tell, I already took a lot of liberties with an afterlife, so just take that as fair warning and don't expect this to match up with The Simarillion, kay? ;)
> 
> OH and one more thing, I got really busy on this chapter right away bc I'm super pumped, but please don't expect that updates will be this close together and this speedy. I am only human and a procrastinator at heart so this isn't a good assumption XD


	3. The Lonely Cabin

He knew he was very nearly dead when he stumbled upon a small house, half hidden in a valley. He had been walking aimlessly, directionless, purposeless, for days. Wandering, clueless.

He didn't know what he was supposed to _do,_ and it ate away at him, almost more than the lack of proper food.

The house was aging, falling apart, but the only sign of civilization he had seen in weeks. He collapsed at the sight of it, the image disappearing as his vision went fuzzy and dark, his scattered, tired thoughts crawling away like spiders.

Perhaps it would not be so bad, to die. Some of the bodies he had seen looked peaceful.

He would have liked that.

 

* * *

 

_Bilbo was smiling. He found himself gazing at the flickering flames of a campfire, the wind roaring in his ears, a slow drizzle of rain doing its best to put the flames out. And yet he was smiling, and he could not quite determine why._

_There were warm bodies all around him, practically radiating heat, helping to drive away the chill. He glanced around, but he could not make out their faces. He felt content here all the same._

_“Bilbo?” one of them called from across the fire._

_He was broad and imposing, with long, dark hair and large hands that sharpened a sword gleaming from the fire’s glow. When he spoke his name, however, his voice was soft, gentle, a sharp contrast to his appearance. Bilbo tried to make out any other details, but the rest was a hazy blur, like trying to see through a cloud._

_Bilbo yearned, desperately, to see his face clearly._

_“Bilbo?” his voice asked again, now laced with concern._

_The smile slowly slipped from Bilbo’s face as the rain doused the fire and the wind’s howls obscured the sound of his voice._

 

* * *

 

He woke to more comfort that he had known in a long time, more warmth than he could ever remember, and he was terrified to open his eyes to find that it was a fever dream, a hopeless illusion. His stomach clenched painfully, though it was more hunger pangs than anxiety. He hadn't eaten anything but stray berries in days. Swallowing dryly, he opened his eyes.

There was a roof, dilapidated and slanted to the left, the wood rotting noticeably. He looked down, saw himself wrapped in a fraying, faded blanket. Panic leaping to his throat immediately, he jerked up and cast his eyes around, searching. He didn’t know who he hoped to find, if anyone at all. His fading dream came to his mind, but he found he could not remember what it had been of, only recalling a vague warmth unlike anything he’d experienced since he woke in the snow.

The room was silent as the grave, apart from his ragged breaths.

Someone, he reasoned tiredly, must have brought him here. He supposed they would not have wished him ill--they would have had all the time in the world to harm him while he slept.

Slowly, he slipped from the bed as quietly as he could. On his feet, he stumbled and his legs shook. A horrible dizziness sent him reeling for what felt like a lifetime. When he recovered, he wandered, discovering his strange surroundings.

The house was only a house in the most generous of terms. It was a ramshackle place and looked hardly lived in, sparse and bare of identity. There was a small dining table, and what might have passed for a kitchen, once. There was a fine layer of dust over most surfaces, illuminated by a thin stream of sunlight trickling into the room through a dusty window.

The items that drew his eye almost immediately were the pair of boots and the pack by the door. The boots were well worn and the bits of snow sliding down the sides darkened the wood of the floorboards below. Bilbo opened the pack with slight trepidation. There were clothes, and hardened biscuits wrapped in smaller cloths that he eagerly scooped up. He shoved large bits into his mouth without much decorum, sending crumbs flying into the pack.

For a few moments, he ate his fill--whatever the biscuits were made of seemed to ease the aching hunger in his belly quickly. Once he felt clear headed and near satisfied, he returned his attention to the contents of the pack. Sticking a hand in and shoving the spare clothes aside, he hissed when his finger caught on something sharp.

Bilbo stilled, the food in his stomach now sitting like a rock. Cautiously, he looked closer and saw four long, wickedly tipped knives. One was covered in drying blood.

Bilbo got to his feet shakily and swallowed hard. Hands trembling, he wrapped what was left of the biscuits he’d found. The pack contained a pouch of animal skin filled with water, which he scooped up quickly. Backing away, he turned to the door, but stopped, staring at the aged wood.

Slowly, he turned back and approached the pack like he would a wild animal. He picked up one of the knives, holding it gingerly. He would likely need something to defend himself. He had wandered for long enough with nothing that he felt pushing his luck further would be careless. Bilbo disliked the feel of it in his hand--the weight of a blade felt familiar but tinged with a bitterness that he could not place. He was jolted from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps nearing the door of the house. His blood turned to ice and he frantically searched for a hiding place. He just managed to reach the room he had woken in and lodged himself behind the open door as the main door of the cabin swung open, hinges creaking ominously.

The footsteps were clear for a moment, booming in the silence, then stopped abruptly. Bilbo imagined whoever it was had discovered their pack ransacked and winced, cursing his slowness. If he had only left moments ago when he had the chance!

Bilbo’s mind raced. If the stranger came into the room he would clearly see Bilbo wasn’t in the bed. Then he would turn around and no doubt see him where he hid. An idea struck him suddenly, and as silently as possible Bilbo crept to the bed, making sure to keep out of sight from the doorway. He arranged the moth-bitten pillow under the covers, hoping it would appear something like a body curled beneath the blanket.

The heavy sound of footsteps came again, coming closer and closer, and Bilbo crept back to the space behind the door, hardly daring to breathe. Slowly, the stranger strode into the room, his gaze trained on the bed, and Bilbo finally caught a glimpse of him. _A dwarf,_ he thought, and the realization brought a stifled sob to his throat, though he refused to let the sound escape his lips. He almost revealed himself then, because he felt so familiar with the sight of a dwarf it was almost like _home,_ but the more he studied his figure the more he saw things he didn’t recognize. Markings and scars wormed their way up the dwarf’s bared forearms, and a wickedly curved blade hung at his side unlike any he’d seen before. His hair was the only familiar thing that Bilbo could see--dark and barely braided. He wished, for a moment, to see the dwarf’s face so he might be sure he did not know him in some way, but another glance at the blade told him he was thinking foolishly.

He stepped more carefully than ever, his feet not making a whisper of a sound as he stepped around the door, and backwards through the doorway, hoping the dwarf would not turn from his quiet contemplation of the form on the bed. He clenched the biscuits and pouch in his hands nervously, only daring to breathe out in a whisper when he was far enough from the room, and close enough to the main door. With a shaky exhale, he made to open the door, but the hinges betrayed him, letting out a loud creak despite the fact that he had been as careful as possible. Spurred by the sudden sound of movement behind him, Bilbo squeezed out through the opening and ran furiously, not daring to look back.

The dwarf shouted behind him, clearly running after, but Bilbo pushed his legs harder, spurred by panic, pushing through the long, wet grass that threatened to knock him over. After a few moments, he already felt the beginnings of fatigue, his aching body having had little rest or food. Panting, vision blurring, he slowed against his will, unable to keep moving without losing consciousness entirely. The sound of heavy footfalls close behind sent him stumbling, and he lost his footing on the uneven ground, slippery from the melting snowfall. He crashed to the ground, the wind knocked out of him, but he twisted around to see his pursuer more clearly. There was a scowl on the dwarf’s face, and a scar near his mouth made it look all the more frightening.

When the dwarf came close enough to reach for Bilbo, he whipped out the knife he had stolen, slashing a cut into the dwarf’s forearm. The action made black spots dance in his view, but Bilbo did not dare let down his guard. The dwarf pulled back with a growl and Bilbo made to slash again, but the dwarf caught his arm, wrestling the knife from Bilbo’s grip. The brief struggle left Bilbo gasping for breath, and he felt himself slipping unconscious with every moment. The last thing he saw was the dwarf’s green eyes narrowed into slits. The strange thought that followed him into the dark was that they were the wrong color.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo woke to find the dwarf staring at him, the knife that he had taken from him twirled between his fingers, a small bit of gauze covering the cut on his right arm. When the dwarf saw that he had woken, he leaned back and drawled, “well, you’re a sneaky little creature aren’t you?” with a grin.

Now that he was closer, the dwarf’s face was not so frightening, his eyes bright with laugh lines at the corners. His hair was jet black with dark auburn streaks, and the unbraided strands hung thick around his shoulders like a curtain. The scar on his face did it's best to make the left side of his mouth appear like a gruesome frown, but his eyes did not speak of anger or discontent. The dwarf’s beard was not very long, and he thought this odd. Bilbo thought it reminded him of someone, though he did not know who.

Bilbo narrowed his eyes at him. “What do you want?” he asked angrily, his voice sounding hoarse from days of disuse. Strangely, he found that any trace of fear had vanished, replaced with a growing annoyance.

The dwarf raised an eyebrow. “Just curious is all. You seem to have a death wish,” he stated matter of factly.

“What are you talking about? Why won’t you let me leave?” Bilbo bristled.

“I find you practically dead on the lawn and I very kindly take you in, and the next thing I know you’re sprinting for the hills with a bit of lembas bread that’ll last you, eh,  maybe a few days if you rationed it out right. You do know there isn’t anything out here for miles and miles? What was your plan?” the dwarf asked amusedly.

“Well I might have stayed had I not discovered my savior to be violently inclined,” Bilbo grit out, eyeing the dwarf warily. At the dwarf’s look of slight confusion, Bilbo added, “just how often do you make use of those knives of yours?”

The dwarf stared for a moment, then laughed outright. Before Bilbo could decide whether to be confused or appalled, the dwarf explained, “on rabbits I use them quite often. Thought a bit of meat might do you good.”

Bilbo immediately felt sheepish. “Oh,” he murmured, feeling his ears redden.

The dwarf tilted his head, then asked, “where in Mahal’s name were you hiding when I came in?”

Bilbo pointed to the small space behind the door. The dwarf turned, looked back at Bilbo disbelieving, then turned to look again and let out another barking laugh. “Mahal’s balls! And you managed to slip out while I was _in the room?”_

Chuckling a little, Bilbo nodded, feeling his ears redden when the dwarf looked him over with curious, calculating eyes. “That’s quite a useful skill,” the dwarf said appreciatively. “And you likely would have done it if the hinges hadn’t given you away.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Bilbo muttered a little irritably. “You should take better care of your home, it’s filthy around here,” he added, glancing around the room with distaste.

The dwarf stared at him again, looking like he was trying to decipher a puzzle. “What’s your name?” he seemed to finally settle on.

“Bilbo. Baggins,” he added, an unconscious addition that he marveled at. The name felt strange in his mouth--it was the first time he’d said it out loud since he’d remembered it, and it made it all the more real. “Thank you,” he blurted out, before the dwarf could respond, “for helping me. I believe you’ve saved my life. I...I’m sorry I attacked you.” He gestured to the cut on the dwarf’s arm, feeling terribly guilty now.

The dwarf waved a hand as if brushing the remark away. “No real harm done. I’m glad to see there’s a bit of fight in you. So, what are you doing wandering around these parts?”

“I...” Bilbo stopped and realized he didn’t quite have a clear answer. “I just...I needed to get away.”

The dwarf seemed to understand this, because he didn’t question further on the subject. “Do you have a destination at least?” he asked after a moment, voice surprisingly gentle.

Bilbo said nothing, but he imagined his expression spoke volumes. The dwarf glanced down, then said, “I am headed for Gondor the morning after tomorrow. You’re welcome to accompany me if you wish.”

“Gondor is a city of men,” Bilbo said without thinking, wondering after the fact how he knew such a thing. “Are there many dwarves there?”

The dwarf smiled as if Bilbo had said something funny. “If you know where to look.”

“I...” He didn’t know whether to accept or not. While it was true he had nowhere and no _one_ else, he knew nothing of this dwarf, and knew very little of Gondor. “I am...unsure...that Gondor might offer me anything I am looking for.”

The dwarf’s face flashed sympathetically for a moment before becoming carefully neutral. “What is it that you’re looking for?”

 _Home. Family. A dwarf._ The words came immediately to his mind with a terrible urgency, knotting his stomach and closing up his throat. He didn’t have these things but he missed them like he would a limb, and he didn’t know where he might find them or if he would even recognize them if he did. He remembered nothing save useless words and hazy, half-recalled dreams.

“Work,” he said instead, tamping down the despair and longing, fighting to let his anguish show. “I’m looking for work.”

The dwarf eyed him as if he knew that Bilbo was keeping something, but seemed to let it go a moment later, shifting to lean further in his chair. “How law abiding are you, Bilbo?” the dwarf asked abruptly, the conversation changing so quickly it almost made Bilbo’s head spin.

“Erm...sorry, what?”

“I might have a job for you,” the dwarf said, “if you’re up for it.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “What kind of job?”

“Something like...freelance,” the dwarf supplied with a shrug. Bilbo stared at him, until he supplied, “there’s a group of us, down in Gondor.”

“What exactly does this group do?” Bilbo pressed.

The dwarf considered him for a moment. “Gondor appears a model city, with a supposedly gracious king and thriving people. But it’s flooded with corruption and a crooked upper class that squanders money that would be life changing for those down below. We provide...balance.”

“You’re thieves,” Bilbo realized. The dwarf’s interest in the manner of his escape suddenly made sense.

“We like to think of ourselves as opportunists with a tendency towards philanthropy.”

Bilbo let out a bark of laughter, surprising himself. Even the dwarf looked taken aback for a moment. “Sorry...what was your name?” Bilbo asked.

The dwarf smiled slowly, the grin stretching across his face. “Noros.”

Bilbo blinked. The name seemed familiar as well, and Bilbo racked his brain to find any connection to it, only to come up short. Shaking his head, he sighed. “Well, Noros, I'm afraid I must decline the offer.”

Noros frowned. “Why? You're more adept than any dwarf I've ever seen.”

“I have no desire to find myself on the wrong side of the law,” Bilbo reasoned, both with himself and the dwarf.

“You might find it hard pressed to find any other work in Gondor,” Noros told him. “As much as men think themselves a noble race, they do not trust outsiders easily. They are particularly less inclined to employ dwarves, and well, Bilbo Baggins, you unfortunately appear more dwarf than man.”

“Then perhaps I won't go to Gondor either,” he murmured.

Noros watched him for a brief moment, then said, “it’s strange. This house is rarely used by those in our organization. It can be vacant and empty for months on end. It lies in a barren place where we know it will not be disturbed. And yet...you stumble upon it in the few days I require a brief shelter, when our group searches for more useful members among the dwarves of Gondor. Does that not sound like fate?”

Bilbo furrowed his brow, contemplating. He wasn't sure he believed in fate--wasn't quite sure he believed in anything in fact, yet the coincidences did seem rather numerous. “Is there truly honor among thieves?” he asked dryly, and in reply Noros grinned like a tomcat.

“If you know where to look.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides face* It's been a while. So, so sorry for the wait! Thanks for reading and enjoying. Where will our hobbit find himself next?


End file.
